


I Stand Shaken

by SouthernLynxx



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Being Emotionally Vulnerable, Men Supporting Men, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Panic Attacks, Protective John Marston, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernLynxx/pseuds/SouthernLynxx
Summary: “I feel like I’ve lost control,” Arthur admitted quietly, then snorted, “Hell, probably lost it a long time ago. This whole thing is a mess.” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose, and rasped a soft ‘goddamn’ under his breath. “No one deserves to die like that."
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	I Stand Shaken

**Author's Note:**

> tw: Panic Attacks

The dust had barely settled and the air was still thick with southern heat and gun smoke, but the carnage before them wouldn’t simply clear itself away no matter how much they willed it. 

With gunshots still ringing in his ears, Arthur cut across the impromptu battleground overlooked by the once grand structure of Shady Belle. Tossing the small bag of supplies he’d stripped from the last of the bodies onto the modest pile on the porch, he threw open the doors of the stately home with more force than intended. 

He could still feel his heart racing, and the hot rush of adrenaline made his fingers itch for the comfort of cool steel against his palm and the resistance of the trigger against his finger. He tried not to delve further into his own mind, but he couldn’t fully quell the small, persistent tremor of apprehension that pricked at his nerves and made his eyes flit too quickly around the room.

“Bill, Javier, get these bodies into a boat and dump them further in the swamp; we have enough problems without more vermin finding their way here,” he ordered with barely a glance in their direction, already crossing the threshold into another room. 

Dutch had vanished in the aftermath, likely to seethe in private at the gall of such an attack. It had shaken something in them. Not just in Dutch, or in Arthur, but everyone, he could feel it. The sickening weight in his stomach that had manifested the moment he’d laid eyes on Milton and Ross walking into their camp at Clemen’s Point had barely eased by the time Shady Belle was suddenly swarmed with O’Driscolls. Now Arthur wondered if he would ever be free of the leaden sense of dread that Fate’s next hand would be the end of them.

His only relief was distraction, and with Dutch indisposed that gave Arthur plenty to focus on as he stepped up in his mentor’s absence. 

“Get these doorways cleared first, and that glass swept. Marston are you going to help or stand around like a spare damn prick?” he snarled. It was uncalled for, the venom in his voice, and he could see the way John’s hackles immediately rose at the intimation of idleness. 

The simplicity of their exchange, the warm familiar flames of aggression, was another distraction, another comfort, something he could anticipate and control. 

“Shut your damn mouth, Morgan,” John snapped back with equal ire. “You ain’t the boss of no one here.” The splintered cabinet door he’d been holding dropped to the floor as Arthur rounded on him, prepared to bring the full weight of his wrath down on the belligerent son of a bitch, but he made the mistake of meeting John’s eyes before he could.

They were dark, and they were angry, likely a reflection of Arthur’s own, but even more so, beneath the steely glint, there was a fear that resonated with something in Arthur, something that, up until now, he’d managed to bury deep. 

His words caught in his throat, and John drew his shoulders back as if bracing himself for what Arthur intended to reign down on him, be it words or fists. But he received neither. Arthur could feel that alarming weight in his stomach suddenly bear down on his chest, and he had to get out of there. Now. 

“Just make yourself useful for once in your goddamn life, Marston,” he barked over his shoulder, turning abruptly and almost colliding with Tilly in his rush to get up the stairs. 

The pressure binding his chest like rope was near unbearable, and between the slamming of his bedroom door and the blood rushing in his ears, Arthur didn’t hear the thundering footsteps following closer behind. 

He was too busy trying to breathe, trying to abate the erratic rise and fall of his chest, but he knew it was already too late. 

His back hit the wall nearest his cot and he looked up at the ceiling, trying to focus on the holes in the plaster and exposed beams that were damp and green with mildew. But he was beyond distraction now. With every wretched gasp he felt a growing stricture close around his throat, his chest aching with an unbearable tightness as he expelled more air than his swelling lungs could drag in. It was as if his very ribs were squeezing tight and threatening to puncture him from the inside out.

“Not now, _not now,”_ he hissed, fury welling wet and unbidden in his eyes as he sank to the floor. He could feel the panic climb up his body like a cold, unforgiving tide while he was drowned by the very air he was so desperate for.

He jerked when his door was thrown open, revealing John in the entryway, his scarred features twisted into a furious, ugly snarl. There were invectives on his tongue, likely looking for a fight as much as Arthur had been, but they were lost the moment John clapped eyes on him. Stunned by the pathetic sight of him compared to five minutes ago, no doubt.

 _“G-get o-out,”_ Arthur managed to hiss in between ragged gasps, his fingers twisting into the front of his shirt. He could feel his heart flutter like the wings of a trapped bird beneath his chest, helpless and frightened. 

To no surprise, John ignored him, but Arthur had already ducked his head, deciding that glaring hatefully at the floor was better than at the blurred, looming figure of Marston who was no doubt staring with his mouth agape at the state of him. 

He barely registered the sound of the door closing, but he sucked in a sharp, painful breath when suddenly John was dropping down onto one knee in front of him, the warm weight of his hand pressing down on Arthur’s shoulder.

He swiped at the hand on instinct, petty indignation briefly wrestling with the sickening anxiety that roiled in his gut as he tried to shove the other man away. He wasn’t meant to be seen like this. _Couldn’t_ be seen like this. He breath caught, and just like this he felt any semblance of control slip away as he fought to drag in more air than before. It still wasn't enough. It was never enough. 

_Why couldn’t he breathe?!_

“Arthur, for christ’s sake!” John grunted with barely masked irritation, knocking away Arthur’s hands which were clumsy but forceful. He managed to plant his own hands, warm and heavy, on Arthur’s shoulders and shake him roughly, hard enough to knock his head back against the wall with a pained grunt, and just like that the fight left him. Arthur sagged, finally looking up at John with his eyes wet and red-rimmed while still futilely gasping for air. 

“C’mon, Arthur, we’ve done this before, breath with me.” His hands fell away, leaving Arthur feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed, but through the watery haze he could see John lifting his hands to his mouth. It was an action Arthur knew full well, but the prompt to copy triggered an old instinct, and he imitated, cupping his hands over his mouth and shutting his eyes tight, forcing the first few errant tears to streak down his cheeks. 

“Deep breaths, slow. Match me,” John ordered, the rasp in his voice more pronounced at the low pitch he was speaking. He took a deep, exaggerated breath and released it in a long slow gust, and at any other time Arthur might have punched him for speaking to him like a child. _“C’mon,_ Arthur,” John pressed. 

Arthur opened his eyes just enough to shoot an irritated glare in John’s direction before relenting, fighting through the short desperate gasps that were too quick and too panicked to draw in a deeper breath. 

It was a struggle, but to John’s credit he was persistent, maintaining his long steady breaths until Arthur seemed to regain some level of control. With every long exhale into his palms, the next breath came easier, until the crippling pressure beneath his skin had receded almost completely. When Arthur was breathing regularly again, save for the odd hitch in between, John dropped his hands from his mouth, waiting until Arthur took one last long breath and dropped his own as well. 

In the absence of panic, exhaustion quickly took its place, and Arthur slumped against the wall, hanging his head with only the slightest tremor persisting on his inhales. The sudden silence between them was still and heavy, broken only by Arthur’s laboured breaths and the sounds of movement and bouts of irritated Spanish outside the window. 

John sighed and pushed himself up, and Arthur expected him to leave then. He listened intently as the younger man took several steps away, and furrowed his brow at the quiet rumble of glass sliding against wood. Then John was beside him, squeezing in between Arthur and his clothing chest with a bottle of opened rum he’d plucked from Arthur’s desk. He was close enough that their arms brushed when John brought the neck of the bottle to his mouth and took a deep swig. He swallowed audibly, and the bottle came away with a pop of air. 

“How long’s this been going on?” 

Arthur gave a deep, irritable sigh and lifted his head minutely when John offered him the bottle. After a lengthy pause, considering the peace offering, he took it and brought the neck to his lips, taking a long drink and wiping any errant drops with the back of his hand.

“...I haven’t seen you like that since I was, what? Fifteen, sixteen, maybe?”

Arthur grimaced, exhaling heavily through his nose with a palpable reluctance. He rubbed his hand across his face, suddenly feeling haggard by the whole thing. 

“They stopped.” Arthur muttered at long last, and John looked at him, almost surprised by the amiable reply. “Stopped for a good long while. But they came back, after Sean died, on the back of that whole parley trap with Colm…” he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he murmured. 

He took another long drink, then let his head fall back against the wall as he offered the bottle back. John took it without a word, but Arthur could feel the expectation in his silence.

“I feel like I’ve lost control,” Arthur admitted quietly, then snorted, “Hell, probably lost it a long time ago. This whole thing is a mess.” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose, and rasped a soft ‘goddamn’ under his breath. “No one deserves to die like that."

John was quiet, not knowing what to say in response, and Arthur could hardly blame him. The nightmarish sight of Keiren riding in on the winds of an impending battle twisted in his gut, and he suddenly longed for another swig of sickly sweet rum to push the image from his mind, though it would no doubt be present for weeks to come. He could feel John’s eyes on him as he used his sleeve to wipe his eyes, agitated by the evidence that dampened the blue cotton.

“We’ll be ok,” John muttered. Arthur looked at him, expression grim, but he didn’t voice the obvious that neither of them truly believed it. Not anymore. Instead he nodded, and muttered a quiet thanks as the bottle was held out to him in a loose hold.

They passed it back and forth in silence, emptying it between them with nothing more to say. 

**Author's Note:**

> I figured with all the really traumatic stuff that starts to happen mid-chapter 3, it wouldn't be a surprise if at least some of the gang had some forms of anxiety, and the idea of Arthur having panic attacks was an interesting one for me to explore. I've had precisely one panic attack that I can recall, so hopefully I've relayed the experience relatably!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed - comments are always appreciated as they're a great way for me to know if I'm characterising these characters and situations properly <3


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